Ekev 5774: Reimagining God

On the surface, Parashat Ekev is about what kind of people God expects that Israel will become. We read that Israel’s God “demands” many things—reverence, love, obedience and devotion. Israel is warned of the afflictions of affluence—ingratitude and materialism, and is reminded of the many benefactions that God has bestowed upon them since the days of the patriarchs. And yet on a deeper level the parashah draws a portrait not of Israel but of God. Who is this deity of ours? An impartial judge, or a benevolent parent? Is this God almighty, or is that a mirage? In rabbinic literature we have many bold efforts to expose and explore the apparent contradictions in the Torah’s image of God.

In chapter 10:17 we read that God is הָאֵל הַגָּדֹל הַגִּבֹּר וְהַנּוֹרָא “the God who is great, mighty and awesome,” words that we repeat with every Amidah prayer. And yet the sages note that later prophets were more circumspect in their praise of God. In Bavli Yoma 69b and in a parallel text in Yerushalmi Megilah 3:7, the sages explain why Jeremiah and then Daniel edited down the prayer of Moses with its three powerful attributes, reducing God’s might to two and then just one expression. Jeremiah deleted the word וְהַנּוֹרָא “the awesome,” which is understood to refer to the Temple, since he witnessed its destruction. Daniel deleted the word הַגִּבֹּר “the mighty” since he lived among the exiles who were subjugated to foreign nations. Along came the sages of the “great assembly” and they restored the prayer of Moses to once again affirm God’s threefold greatness. Their justification? The appearance of divine abandonment is actually an example of divine engagement. While the temple was destroyed, the fact that God is patient with the wicked (allowing them to oppress Israel) is proof of God’s greatness, not impotence, and the fact that Israel nevertheless survives the international onslaught is proof of divine “awesomeness.”

The sages of the “Great” Assembly thus restored God’s “greatness” with their theodicy, but the rabbis of the Talmud remained skeptical. Yes, they dutifully included the three adjectives of Moses in every Amidah and rejected efforts to modify them. Yet the rabbis also gave a none-too-subtle hint of their skepticism about this convenient theodicy. Why, they ask, did those “rabbis” (I.e. Jeremiah and Daniel) feel entitled to delete the praises written by Moses? Because, they say, the prophets knew that God respects the truth, and in truth, a people that has experienced destruction and exile cannot praise God as mighty and awesome.

This is a typically neurotic Jewish response. Following the sages, we continue to praise God without restraint, but under our breath we wonder, together with them, really? Still, it is in exploring contradictions rather than in mouthing simple pieties that our spiritual lives deepen, and our engagement in the real world, the world of injustice and suffering, becomes more true. This is Jewish theodicy—offering explanations, but never fully accepting them. In the end, the world must match our understanding of justice, and nothing less will suffice.

Another contradiction relates to the question whether God shows favoritism (noseh panim) or not to Israel. The very same verse, 10:17, claims that God is mighty in not showing favoritism or in taking bribes. God is an impartial judge, and a good role model for human judges who are also commanded to be impartial. Except that our favorite description of God, the priestly benediction, promises that God will “show you favor” (yisa Adonai panav eilekha). In B. Brakhot 20 the angels themselves denounce this contradiction before God, who confesses to the hypocrisy: “How can I not show favor to Israel? I commanded them, “you shall eat and be satisfied and then bless” but they say blessings even after eating only the amount of an olive or an egg (and not a full meal)!” Because Israel goes “above and beyond” the divine demand, God too must go “above and beyond” impartial treatment of the people. The Maharal of Prague explains in Be’er Ha’Golah that this passage instructs Israel to attach itself to the divine attribute of mercy—that which goes beyond the demands of justice—and that this will result in God responding in mercy to Israel.

As we end the difficult month of Av and turn toward Elul, an internal reorientation is suggested. This summer the people of Israel has focused on not divine but human justice—justifications of military strategies and self-defense by the country of Israel, even at the cost of vast human suffering in Gaza. Such justifications are often compelling, and even necessary given the unfair and even anti-Semitic criticisms hurled at Israel. And yet these justifications remain insufficient as our religious response. It is in mercy that we approach our higher spiritual capacities. There is a place for pious justifications, as we have seen, but there is also a need to acknowledge their limits, even their falsehood, as we experience the deeper truth of human suffering, and open our hearts in love, even to our enemies. This is how I understand the imperative that we cling to God—like Jacob, clinging, wrestling and crying out to discover a truer name for God, and a truer name for ourselves.